<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>like pretty fish by thefudge</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731656">like pretty fish</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge'>thefudge</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Queen's Gambit (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drunkenness, F/M, Missing Scene, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild M, ost: flashbulb - it pours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:13:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the Paris game, Borgov finds her in the hotel restaurant, drunk and alone. (1x06 AU)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>312</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>like pretty fish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a THIRD beth/borgov fic in less than 36 hours?<br/>i don't have a problem, i swear.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sleep doesn’t find him.</p>
<p>When he was a young boy, his mother used to say, “he runs away from sleep”, because every night, at bedtime he would sprint from his mother’s embrace into the smoke-filled corridors of a house that no longer exists. He can hear the thud-thud-thud of his bare feet on the water-logged floors where the thick carpets were always a little askew. He can’t remember why he ran, why he thought he <em>could</em> run.   </p>
<p>Paris hotels oppress him with their creamy pastels, the texture like pie crust smothered in sour cream, a dessert altogether too rich. Only his wife can eat the food here. He hasn’t the ability to enjoy the buttered rolls or the caramelized oranges crowning the duck breasts. All is obscene and rather immaterial. Nothing tastes like anything anymore. </p>
<p>But he is hungry now. He didn’t want to wake his wife for room service. He will get a sandwich from the bar and maybe he will have a soda, his one extravagance.</p>
<p>This <em>was</em> the plan, at least.   </p>
<p>Instead, he finds her huddled in an armchair at the back of the restaurant, hidden behind a particularly succulent bougainvillea. She’s holding her knees to her chest and her dress is stained with alcohol. Her make-up has run over. Her head is resting on the back of the chair and she keeps blinking, as if trying to get something out of her eye. There are two empty bottles of champagne before her and other various cocktail glasses. She is alone.</p>
<p>Borgov stops before this sight like a man who has accidentally entered a boudoir and, before he can help himself, he hears himself scolding her, as if she were his son.   </p>
<p>“You should be upstairs, resting for tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Beth hasn’t even sensed his presence.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what made him speak and what makes him slip into the seat next to hers.</p>
<p>He could summon one of the valets to take her upstairs. It would be nothing to him. And yet, there is something grotesquely sad about her posture, her rigid drunkenness. He cannot leave her like this.</p>
<p>Ever since he’s met this hybrid child-woman with eyes like hallways he has tried to find a corner for her in his mind that could accommodate her. She is unlike any other opponent, dangerous and yet incredibly vulnerable, in desperate need of someone’s protection. That must be part of the danger. </p>
<p>He reaches out tentatively and touches the crook of her arm. He presses his thumb where arm and elbow meet.</p>
<p>Beth jumps. Her eyes open wide, doors opening on other doors.</p>
<p>Borgov retracts his hand.</p>
<p>“Cleo?” she asks hoarsely.</p>
<p>He blinks, waiting for her to understand there is no one here but him.</p>
<p>“Where’s Cleo?” she asks, drawing away from him.</p>
<p>The severity of his face, presented at a different angle, startles her. She is used to him across from her, not diagonal.</p>
<p>“I do not know,” he says. “I found you alone.”</p>
<p>Beth swallows with a snort. “She probably – left with those men. I was too drunk to hold a conversation.”</p>
<p>The candor in her voice takes him by surprise. She is still rather drunk. That’s why she is sharing this with him.</p>
<p>“It is only right she left,” he says, and although he doesn’t know this Cleo, he already dislikes her. “You need to have a good night’s sleep.”</p>
<p>Her upper lip twitches and glints with sweat. She wipes her nose with a rabbity motion.</p>
<p>“I never had much use for a father, thank you very much,” she says, trembling violently, the alcohol emboldening her enough to mock him.</p>
<p>He gives a faint snort and looks down at his shoes.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t you be asleep, anyway? Big day tomorrow,” she drawls, gliding wearily from the seat, legs stretching out until her foot touches his shoe.</p>
<p>The burgundy dress does not slip, does not ride up. It wraps around her hips modestly, keeping her in place, and he finds this somehow more distracting than if she were indecent.</p>
<p>“I should call someone to take you back to your room,” he says thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Beth leans forward, breath foggy with spirits. “If you want a screaming match, sure. Call someone.”</p>
<p>He can’t tell how much this is the alcohol or <em>her</em>, the person she keeps under that sleek exterior. But he almost smiles. Because the person underneath is an innocent. A bright, innocent girl who doesn’t like to be sent upstairs when the adults are having a party.</p>
<p>“Will you let me walk you to your room then?” he asks, quietly soft, afraid to attract attention.</p>
<p>The strange request catches her off-guard, as most of his moves do.</p>
<p>She has always been susceptible to gallantry.</p>
<p>His face is so correct, so exacting.</p>
<p>She says, “Fine. If you insist.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She can walk, but she’d rather hop. Now that she is not alone, sadness becomes a game. She is suddenly jolly with drink. He tries not to touch her a great deal, he tries to keep his ghostly fingers on her upper arm, a feather touch to keep her upright, but it’s difficult to leave her to her own devices.</p>
<p>She leans into him, pressing herself against his jacket, mumbling something about him having “a beautiful family”, then dashes away from him, skips down the softly-lit hall, the thud-thud-thud of her bare feet on the floor reminding him of the ridiculous boy who ran, who thought he could run.</p>
<p>He is carrying her shoes in his right hand. She could not be made to put them back on. He holds them by their buckles. They dangle from his fingers. He has never held a woman’s shoes like that. Their weight, inconsequential, runs a ticklish jolt up his arm. </p>
<p>Beth giggles, mouth red and alive, and beckons him to catch her.</p>
<p>His mouth presses into a hard line.</p>
<p>“Come <em>here</em>, Lizaveta.”</p>
<p>It is not a request. She will eventually listen.</p>
<p>Beth laughs and darts behind the curve of a marble plinth. “That’s not my name.”</p>
<p>“I said come here.”</p>
<p>Beth peers at him coyly. “You have to say my real name.”</p>
<p>Borgov inhales. Patience is running thin.</p>
<p>“Beth.”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“If you do not come with me, I will leave you alone in this empty corridor.”</p>
<p>Perhaps it is cruel of him to invoke loneliness, but he knows this is what makes her ache. It takes one to know one.</p>
<p>Beth’s eyes darken. Her upper lip reveals teeth.</p>
<p>“You cocksucker.”</p>
<p>The epithet is like a blow to the temples. The word is so alien, so absurd that he cannot even get upset. Her delivery of it was so unconvincing, too.</p>
<p>“Where did you learn that word?”</p>
<p>“The orphanage,” she says without missing a beat.</p>
<p>He nods. Yes, that makes a lot of unfortunate sense.</p>
<p>She will not remember this tomorrow. She would be mortified if she did. He feels like smiling again.</p>
<p>“Will you behave now?” he asks.</p>
<p>Beth bites her lower lip. She hides her face in her hair. And takes his arm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The valet who leers at them as they stop in front of the elevators must think he is taking the inebriated lady upstairs to undress and fuck her half-conscious body.</p>
<p>Borgov shudders.</p>
<p>
  <em>Cocksucker.</em>
</p>
<p>He must admit, the word has a certain charm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can’t find the light switch. He curses softly under his breath.</p>
<p>“Mm?” she mewls, leaning against him.</p>
<p>He guides her inside by the faint light of a streetlamp. He guides her to the foot of the bed.</p>
<p>Beth slides away from him and onto the mattress with a happy sigh.</p>
<p>His eyes have adjusted to the dark. He sees the young woman, legs splayed, hair tumbling. Arms open wide.</p>
<p>“I’m going to pour you a glass of water and you’re going to drink.”</p>
<p>Beth blows a strand of hair from her mouth. “You’re a mind reader. I’m so thirsty.”</p>
<p>He feels, suddenly, as if he had no children, no wife, no friends, no one in this world. He feels as if he’s never talked to another person before.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know how to talk to her.</p>
<p>When he pours water from the jug, his hand doesn’t shake, but he thinks that is exactly wrong.  His hand should shake. He is split from himself. It is dangerous to still be here with her in the dark.</p>
<p>When he approaches the bed, she is staring intently at the ceiling.</p>
<p>Her fingers twitch on the sheet and she pushes an invisible piece forward.</p>
<p>Borgov looks up. There are only inchoate shadows there.</p>
<p>“Do you see them too?” Beth asks eagerly.</p>
<p>He shakes his head with concern. He wants to ask, <em>how long have you been able to see chess pieces on the ceiling?</em></p>
<p>He sits down next to her, bed groaning slightly under him.</p>
<p>He holds out the glass.</p>
<p>“They’re golden-green. Like pretty fish,” she mumbles, eyes still rapt with her vision.</p>
<p>Borgov watches her face. In her eyes, he thinks he sees the glint of creatures swimming.</p>
<p>He touches her forehead, places the back of his palm there, checks for a fever.</p>
<p>Beth giggles.</p>
<p>“You’re a lot nicer in my dreams,” she says.</p>
<p>Good, she thinks this is a dream. Maybe she won’t remember any of it tomorrow.</p>
<p>“Will you drink this glass?” he asks, and there is something a little desperate in his voice. He really must leave.</p>
<p>Beth raises herself on her elbows. She takes the glass from him with clumsy fingers and manages to bring it to her mouth.</p>
<p>She gulps thirstily, water trickling down her chin into the opening of her dress.</p>
<p>Borgov watches the delicate movement of her throat and the fall of water and the dampening of her dress.</p>
<p>After she is done, she lets the glass roll on the bedspread between them.</p>
<p>“This is usually when I touch myself, but I think I’m too drunk to get it right. I’m sorry. Your face right now,” she says, reaching out to graze the unrelenting side of his cheek, “is <em>just</em> right. I’ve made myself come so many times just picturing it. It’s a good face for that kind of thing. God, I make <em>such</em> a mess when you’re looking at me. I have to clean up afterwards.”</p>
<p>She smiles a fuzzy smile, soft and sweet, and falls on her back, head landing on the pillow.</p>
<p>Borgov sits there for a few moments, breath shallow. He has to master himself before he rises. These are just words. He has to not let himself see the image. He must jump several squares. He must remove himself from the board entirely. He must withdraw.</p>
<p>He stares up at the ceiling.</p>
<p>Will he see the gold-green fish? His eyes desperately seek something clean. And not her, not her red hair - red, perhaps, <em>everywhere</em> –   </p>
<p>He picks up the glass and rises angrily.</p>
<p>She has won, somehow.</p>
<p>Beth notices his retreat.</p>
<p>She reaches out for him. “Will you – stay with me? I’m afraid to sleep alone.”</p>
<p>She sounds scared. He knows it’s the loneliness of the orphan who has always slept with so many other orphans in a room but never felt safe.</p>
<p>Borgov stands with his body half-turned.</p>
<p>“I cannot stay with you.”</p>
<p>“Why not?” she whines.</p>
<p>And his mind is a blank.</p>
<p>He can’t think of a reason.</p>
<p>Nothing else exists.</p>
<p>After a few moments, he says, “Sleep. Tomorrow, we play.”</p>
<p>Beth groans and turns away from him, head buried in the pillow.</p>
<p>She will survive the night, he thinks. She’s made of stronger stuff than that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His wife stirs slightly as he slips between the covers.</p>
<p>She lays a hand on his chest, still mid-sleep.</p>
<p>“Where have you been?”</p>
<p>“Went down for a sandwich,” he replies, placing his hand over her hand, squeezing briefly. Then he tucks her hand under her pillow.</p>
<p>His wife resumes her dreams.</p>
<p>He stares up at the ceiling, perfectly still.</p>
<p>
  <em>I make such a mess when you’re looking at me. </em>
</p>
<p>He bleeds the words of their power, makes them fade, until there is only the inkling of her perfume, the heat of her thighs on the bed and the loneliness of touching yourself without relief.</p>
<p>In other words, he is back to square one.</p>
<p>He shuts his eyes in pain.</p>
<p>Whatever happens tomorrow, she has wounded him, and he will have to do his utmost to resist licking that wound.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He almost thinks she remembers. He almost thinks it’s a taunt when she reaches for the second glass of water.</p>
<p>But no – she is just terribly hungover and lost and unsure.</p>
<p>He feels for her. He does not like to see her shivering in her seat. He wishes he had done better by her. He feels that her wrecked state is somehow his fault.  </p>
<p>But another part of him does not feel any of this.</p>
<p>Another part of him stares at her with that same precision she dreads and welcomes.</p>
<p>He knows that he will beat her today and she will go back home feeling miserable and alone, and at night she will lie down and think about their game and she will do what she needs to do to make herself feel better.</p>
<p>And how can he deny her that?</p>
<p>He is powerless in that regard. </p>
<p>He clenches his jaw and blocks all her exits.</p>
<p>He watches her delicate fingers hesitantly move the rook away from his grasp.</p>
<p>Little Vasya did the same. Tried to run.</p>
<p>He waits.</p>
<p>Eventually, all children must come to bed.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>